Heart of Glass

3





A hired coach takes Faustina and me across the Rialto Bridge towards home. Pulling into the gated driveway, I remember when I returned here for the first time after my incarceration. Then, it looked old and tired. Father was penniless and my sister lay in a coffin. Now, Father is on Venice’s Grand Council, his greatest ambitions realized, and Beatrice is gone forever.

I step out of the coach, Faustina sighing behind me as she lowers her tired old body. The della Scala home rises up before us. The cool of the hallway beckons. I walk across the marbled floor, once broken and chipped, now repaired. The walls glow with a fresh layer of whitewash, and the gilt frame of the hall mirror has been repainted.

“I’m home!” I call out, and hear an answering voice. Too youthful to be my father’s, but equally recognizable, even after all these years.

“We’re in the library!”

I rush into the room at the far end of the hallway, the door half hidden beneath the stairs. Pushing it open, I see a face that almost reflects mine, but not quite. The same chin, only stronger. Eyes the same color as mine, but the hair short, thick and pushed back from a widow’s peak.

“Lysander!” I cry, and fall into my brother’s arms. He doesn’t wear the clothes of a Venetian gentleman. He sports more somber colors, having lived in Bologna for many years, training to be a physician. I heard through Beatrice’s letters that his apartments are near the Botanical Gardens, where the people of Bologna grow healing herbs, but this is the first time I’ve seen him since the day I entered the convent.

“Let me look at you,” I say, pulling back. I hold him at arm’s length and turn him round on the spot. He laughs and indulges me. “You’ve put on weight,” I declare. I prod him in the stomach.

“Hey, hey! Aren’t you supposed to tell me how much you love me and how you’ve missed me? Who cares about my popping waistcoat!”

Of course, my dearest brother is as slender as he ever was. He strokes the back of his hand down my cheek.

“You’ve grown into a beautiful woman,” he says. “Beatrice would have been proud of you.”

I feel my eyes burn; tears are brimming, ready to fall. I dash a hand across my face. Lysander peers at me, then smiles.

“As soft as ever. Come here.”

How far he is from the truth. If he only knew. He draws me to him, and it’s only then—glancing over his shoulder—that I see we are not alone.

“Who’s this?” I ask, pushing myself out of my brother’s arms. A woman stands behind him. She has long auburn locks that cascade over one shoulder and a smattering of freckles against milky skin. When she smiles at me, her teeth are as white as snow and her lips blush red. As she raises a hand in greeting, there’s the sparkle of gold on her finger.

“This is my wife, Emilia,” Lysander tells me, turning to hold out an arm. Still smiling, the woman comes up to Lysander and slips her arm through the one he offers her. Cream organza froths at her neckline.

“I had no idea!” I cry, holding out a hand. I smile at her, and, after a moment’s hesitation, she takes it.

“Love moves swiftly,” she says, and laughs, the sound rolling like a bubbling stream.

A figure appears in the open doorway. “More swiftly than wisdom, it seems.”

My father steps into the library, past the sweeping shelves of expensive books that just a year ago stood empty. Has he ever read any of them? A beam of light falls across his face, sending slanting shadows into the creases of his eyes and the curl of his lip. He looks as if carved from stone. “In my day, all brides came with a dowry,” he says pointedly, staring at Lysander’s wife so hard that her cheeks flush. He doesn’t even use her name.

“Father,” Lysander says stiffly. “Emilia and I aren’t concerned by such things. We love each other.”

Father lets out a hiss of disgust. “The sentiments of a young man. I hope age will bring you a better head for the business of marriage.”

I roll my eyes and Lysander shrugs. “It makes no difference now. It’s not a contract I intend to alter.” He gently pats Emilia’s hand, which still rests on his arm. I notice that her fingers are trembling.

The elder statesman of our family stalks around the room. The floorboards creak beneath his weight. “Do you know what it’s been like for me? Do you?” He swivels round to stare at Lysander.

“Oh, Father, don’t make such a fuss,” I say. “Our family is fine. We’re in a much better situation than this time last year.”

“You have no idea,” he says, shifting his gaze to me. “Not a clue! The pressure I am under. Florentine ambassadors to curry favor with, delicate negotiations about the Ottoman routes. People talk of pirates! One wrong word, one misjudged conversation, and my status could be at risk. The Doge insists on diplomacy when all the Council knows that we need to come down hard. The man’s a fool!”

“That’s treason, Father,” I say, winking at Lysander.

My father pales, then sees my hint of a smile. He glowers. “I mean … we are at a delicate stage. I don’t need an impoverished son to add to my troubles!”

The air throbs with tension. Then Lysander’s nostrils flare, and I realize he is stifling a yawn.

“How tiresome for you,” my brother says, waving a hand lazily as though swatting away imaginary wasps.

Father’s eyes widen in outrage. “You’ll learn,” he spits. He’s already striding from the room, the tails of his coat flying. “A physician’s wages are nothing, and a penniless son should respect his father. He clearly doesn’t respect himself, marrying … that!”

The door slams shut behind him. I want to apologize to Emilia, but Lysander is already by her side, kissing her brow.

“Take no notice,” I hear him whisper.

Emilia catches my eye and forces a smile. I walk over and take her arm, leading her to gaze out of the library windows at the panorama of Venice, lit by the moon that hangs, almost full, in the summer sky.

“I will show you my home,” I say, “where Lysander and I grew up with Beatrice.”

“I’d like that,” my new sister-in-law tells me. She squeezes my hand as Lysander comes to stand behind us.

“He’s gotten worse,” he grumbles.

“Don’t worry about Father,” I say. “Nothing makes him happier than a dose of unhappiness, and since his success at the Grand Council, he is struggling for things to complain about.”

But Lysander refuses to laugh. “It looked as though the Grand Council have been busy, judging from the harbor,” he says. “Security was tighter than I’ve ever seen it. We had to empty our trunks to be searched.”

Emilia laughs anxiously. “The guards nearly dropped my dress for the embassy ball into the water!”

“Oh, I’m glad you’ll be there,” I say. “It will be an important night for Venice.”

Faustina has stepped into the room with a plate of olives and bread. “You can thank the Doge for the searches,” she comments, setting the tray down on a small table. She looks over both of her shoulders, as though checking for strangers, and brings her face close to ours. “Spies! He’s worried about spies.”

Emilia’s face pales and she casts my brother a glance as if to say, What type of place have you brought me to?


Later, we dine with Father. Success has done little to curb his drinking, and we watch in uncomfortable silence as he pours himself yet another glass of wine. A servant brings in the hazelnut pudding, but I’m fearful of being late for my appointment.

“I’m going to retire now,” I announce. I push my chair back and its feet screech awkwardly against the floor.

“Already?” Father asks, his words slurred. But his eyelids are drooping, and I can tell that within the hour he will be in a deep sleep and past caring.

“I need my bed,” I lie. “It’s been a long day.”

Emilia gives me a sympathetic look, and Lysander kisses my hand. Father reaches for the wine, and I leave the room.

While the city falls asleep, I have business to attend to.